Little Lord Fauntleroy/Source/VI

VI

When Lord Fauntleroy wakened in the morning,--he had not wakened at all
when he had been carried to bed the night before,--the first sounds he
was conscious of were the crackling of a wood fire and the murmur of
voices.

"You will be careful, Dawson, not to say anything about it," he heard
some one say. "He does not know why she is not to be with him, and the
reason is to be kept from him."

"If them's his lordship's orders, mem," another voice answered, "they'll
have to be kep', I suppose. But, if you'll excuse the liberty, mem, as
it's between ourselves, servant or no servant, all I have to say is,
it's a cruel thing,--parting that poor, pretty, young widdered cre'tur'
from her own flesh and blood, and him such a little beauty and a
nobleman born. James and Thomas, mem, last night in the servants' hall,
they both of 'em say as they never see anythink in their two lives--nor
yet no other gentleman in livery--like that little fellow's ways, as
innercent an' polite an' interested as if he'd been sitting there dining
with his best friend,--and the temper of a' angel, instead of one (if
you'll excuse me, mem), as it's well known, is enough to curdle your
blood in your veins at times. And as to looks, mem, when we was rung
for, James and me, to go into the library and bring him upstairs, and
James lifted him up in his arms, what with his little innercent face
all red and rosy, and his little head on James's shoulder and his hair
hanging down, all curly an' shinin', a prettier, takiner sight you'd
never wish to see. An' it's my opinion, my lord wasn't blind to it
neither, for he looked at him, and he says to James, 'See you don't wake
him!' he says."

Cedric moved on his pillow, and turned over, opening his eyes.

There were two women in the room. Everything was bright and cheerful
with gay-flowered chintz. There was a fire on the hearth, and the
sunshine was streaming in through the ivy-entwined windows. Both women
came toward him, and he saw that one of them was Mrs. Mellon, the
housekeeper, and the other a comfortable, middle-aged woman, with a face
as kind and good-humored as a face could be.

"Good-morning, my lord," said Mrs. Mellon. "Did you sleep well?"

His lordship rubbed his eyes and smiled.

"Good-morning," he said. "I didn't know I was here."

"You were carried upstairs when you were asleep," said the housekeeper.
"This is your bedroom, and this is Dawson, who is to take care of you."

Fauntleroy sat up in bed and held out his hand to Dawson, as he had held
it out to the Earl.

"How do you do, ma'am?" he said. "I'm much obliged to you for coming to
take care of me."

"You can call her Dawson, my lord," said the housekeeper with a smile.
"She is used to being called Dawson."

"MISS Dawson, or MRS. Dawson?" inquired his lordship.

"Just Dawson, my lord," said Dawson herself, beaming all over. "Neither
Miss nor Missis, bless your little heart! Will you get up now, and let
Dawson dress you, and then have your breakfast in the nursery?"

"I learned to dress myself many years ago, thank you," answered
Fauntleroy. "Dearest taught me. 'Dearest' is my mamma. We had only Mary
to do all the work,--washing and all,--and so of course it wouldn't do
to give her so much trouble. I can take my bath, too, pretty well if
you'll just be kind enough to 'zamine the corners after I'm done."

Dawson and the housekeeper exchanged glances.

"Dawson will do anything you ask her to," said Mrs. Mellon.

"That I will, bless him," said Dawson, in her comforting, good-humored
voice. "He shall dress himself if he likes, and I'll stand by, ready to
help him if he wants me."

"Thank you," responded Lord Fauntleroy; "it's a little hard sometimes
about the buttons, you know, and then I have to ask somebody."

He thought Dawson a very kind woman, and before the bath and the
dressing were finished they were excellent friends, and he had found out
a great deal about her. He had discovered that her husband had been a
soldier and had been killed in a real battle, and that her son was a
sailor, and was away on a long cruise, and that he had seen pirates and
cannibals and Chinese people and Turks, and that he brought home strange
shells and pieces of coral which Dawson was ready to show at any moment,
some of them being in her trunk. All this was very interesting. He also
found out that she had taken care of little children all her life, and
that she had just come from a great house in another part of England,
where she had been taking care of a beautiful little girl whose name was
Lady Gwyneth Vaughn.

"And she is a sort of relation of your lordship's," said Dawson. "And
perhaps sometime you may see her."

"Do you think I shall?" said Fauntleroy. "I should like that. I never
knew any little girls, but I always like to look at them."

When he went into the adjoining room to take his breakfast, and saw
what a great room it was, and found there was another adjoining it which
Dawson told him was his also, the feeling that he was very small indeed
came over him again so strongly that he confided it to Dawson, as he sat
down to the table on which the pretty breakfast service was arranged.

"I am a very little boy," he said rather wistfully, "to live in such a
large castle, and have so many big rooms,--don't you think so?"

"Oh! come!" said Dawson, "you feel just a little strange at first,
that's all; but you'll get over that very soon, and then you'll like it
here. It's such a beautiful place, you know."

"It's a very beautiful place, of course," said Fauntleroy, with a little
sigh; "but I should like it better if I didn't miss Dearest so. I always
had my breakfast with her in the morning, and put the sugar and cream in
her tea for her, and handed her the toast. That made it very sociable,
of course."

"Oh, well!" answered Dawson, comfortingly, "you know you can see her
every day, and there's no knowing how much you'll have to tell her.
Bless you! wait till you've walked about a bit and seen things,--the
dogs, and the stables with all the horses in them. There's one of them I
know you'll like to see----"

"Is there?" exclaimed Fauntleroy; "I'm very fond of horses. I was very
fond of Jim. He was the horse that belonged to Mr. Hobbs' grocery wagon.
He was a beautiful horse when he wasn't balky."

"Well," said Dawson, "you just wait till you've seen what's in the
stables. And, deary me, you haven't looked even into the very next room
yet!"

"What is there?" asked Fauntleroy.

"Wait until you've had your breakfast, and then you shall see," said
Dawson.

At this he naturally began to grow curious, and he applied himself
assiduously to his breakfast. It seemed to him that there must be
something worth looking at, in the next room; Dawson had such a
consequential, mysterious air.

"Now, then," he said, slipping off his seat a few minutes later; "I've
had enough. Can I go and look at it?"

Dawson nodded and led the way, looking more mysterious and important
than ever. He began to be very much interested indeed.

When she opened the door of the room, he stood upon the threshold and
looked about him in amazement. He did not speak; he only put his hands
in his pockets and stood there flushing up to his forehead and looking
in.

He flushed up because he was so surprised and, for the moment, excited.
To see such a place was enough to surprise any ordinary boy.

The room was a large one, too, as all the rooms seemed to be, and it
appeared to him more beautiful than the rest, only in a different way.
The furniture was not so massive and antique as was that in the rooms
he had seen downstairs; the draperies and rugs and walls were brighter;
there were shelves full of books, and on the tables were numbers of
toys,--beautiful, ingenious things,--such as he had looked at with
wonder and delight through the shop windows in New York.

"It looks like a boy's room," he said at last, catching his breath a
little. "Whom do they belong to?"

"Go and look at them," said Dawson. "They belong to you!"

"To me!" he cried; "to me? Why do they belong to me? Who gave them to
me?" And he sprang forward with a gay little shout. It seemed almost
too much to be believed. "It was Grandpapa!" he said, with his eyes as
bright as stars. "I know it was Grandpapa!"

"Yes, it was his lordship," said Dawson; "and if you will be a nice
little gentleman, and not fret about things, and will enjoy yourself,
and be happy all the day, he will give you anything you ask for."

It was a tremendously exciting morning. There were so many things to be
examined, so many experiments to be tried; each novelty was so absorbing
that he could scarcely turn from it to look at the next. And it was so
curious to know that all this had been prepared for himself alone; that,
even before he had left New York, people had come down from London
to arrange the rooms he was to occupy, and had provided the books and
playthings most likely to interest him.

"Did you ever know any one," he said to Dawson, "who had such a kind
grandfather!"

Dawson's face wore an uncertain expression for a moment. She had not
a very high opinion of his lordship the Earl. She had not been in the
house many days, but she had been there long enough to hear the old
nobleman's peculiarities discussed very freely in the servants' hall.

"An' of all the wicious, savage, hill-tempered hold fellows it was ever
my hill-luck to wear livery hunder," the tallest footman had said, "he's
the wiolentest and wust by a long shot."

And this particular footman, whose name was Thomas, had also repeated to
his companions below stairs some of the Earl's remarks to Mr. Havisham,
when they had been discussing these very preparations.

"Give him his own way, and fill his rooms with toys," my lord had said.
"Give him what will amuse him, and he'll forget about his mother quickly
enough. Amuse him, and fill his mind with other things, and we shall
have no trouble. That's boy nature."

So, perhaps, having had this truly amiable object in view, it did not
please him so very much to find it did not seem to be exactly this
particular boy's nature. The Earl had passed a bad night and had spent
the morning in his room; but at noon, after he had lunched, he sent for
his grandson.

Fauntleroy answered the summons at once. He came down the broad
staircase with a bounding step; the Earl heard him run across the hall,
and then the door opened and he came in with red cheeks and sparkling
eyes.

"I was waiting for you to send for me," he said. "I was ready a long
time ago. I'm EVER so much obliged to you for all those things! I'm EVER
so much obliged to you! I have been playing with them all the morning."

"Oh!" said the Earl, "you like them, do you?"

"I like them so much--well, I couldn't tell you how much!" said
Fauntleroy, his face glowing with delight. "There's one that's like
baseball, only you play it on a board with black and white pegs, and you
keep your score with some counters on a wire. I tried to teach Dawson,
but she couldn't quite understand it just at first--you see, she never
played baseball, being a lady; and I'm afraid I wasn't very good at
explaining it to her. But you know all about it, don't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't," replied the Earl. "It's an American game, isn't
it? Is it something like cricket?"

"I never saw cricket," said Fauntleroy; "but Mr. Hobbs took me several
times to see baseball. It's a splendid game. You get so excited! Would
you like me to go and get my game and show it to you? Perhaps it would
amuse you and make you forget about your foot. Does your foot hurt you
very much this morning?"

"More than I enjoy," was the answer.

"Then perhaps you couldn't forget it," said the little fellow anxiously.
"Perhaps it would bother you to be told about the game. Do you think it
would amuse you, or do you think it would bother you?"

"Go and get it," said the Earl.

It certainly was a novel entertainment this,--making a companion of a
child who offered to teach him to play games,--but the very novelty of
it amused him. There was a smile lurking about the Earl's mouth when
Cedric came back with the box containing the game, in his arms, and an
expression of the most eager interest on his face.

"May I pull that little table over here to your chair?" he asked.

"Ring for Thomas," said the Earl. "He will place it for you."

"Oh, I can do it myself," answered Fauntleroy. "It's not very heavy."

"Very well," replied his grandfather. The lurking smile deepened on the
old man's face as he watched the little fellow's preparations; there was
such an absorbed interest in them. The small table was dragged forward
and placed by his chair, and the game taken from its box and arranged
upon it.

"It's very interesting when you once begin," said Fauntleroy. "You see,
the black pegs can be your side and the white ones mine. They're men,
you know, and once round the field is a home run and counts one--and
these are the outs--and here is the first base and that's the second and
that's the third and that's the home base."

He entered into the details of explanation with the greatest animation.
He showed all the attitudes of pitcher and catcher and batter in the
real game, and gave a dramatic description of a wonderful "hot ball"
he had seen caught on the glorious occasion on which he had witnessed a
match in company with Mr. Hobbs. His vigorous, graceful little body, his
eager gestures, his simple enjoyment of it all, were pleasant to behold.

When at last the explanations and illustrations were at an end and the
game began in good earnest, the Earl still found himself entertained.
His young companion was wholly absorbed; he played with all his childish
heart; his gay little laughs when he made a good throw, his enthusiasm
over a "home run," his impartial delight over his own good luck and his
opponent's, would have given a flavor to any game.

If, a week before, any one had told the Earl of Dorincourt that on that
particular morning he would be forgetting his gout and his bad temper
in a child's game, played with black and white wooden pegs, on a gayly
painted board, with a curly-headed small boy for a companion, he would
without doubt have made himself very unpleasant; and yet he certainly
had forgotten himself when the door opened and Thomas announced a
visitor.

The visitor in question, who was an elderly gentleman in black, and no
less a person than the clergyman of the parish, was so startled by the
amazing scene which met his eye, that he almost fell back a pace, and
ran some risk of colliding with Thomas.

There was, in fact, no part of his duty that the Reverend Mr. Mordaunt
found so decidedly unpleasant as that part which compelled him to call
upon his noble patron at the Castle. His noble patron, indeed, usually
made these visits as disagreeable as it lay in his lordly power to make
them. He abhorred churches and charities, and flew into violent rages
when any of his tenantry took the liberty of being poor and ill and
needing assistance. When his gout was at its worst, he did not hesitate
to announce that he would not be bored and irritated by being told
stories of their miserable misfortunes; when his gout troubled him less
and he was in a somewhat more humane frame of mind, he would perhaps
give the rector some money, after having bullied him in the most
painful manner, and berated the whole parish for its shiftlessness and
imbecility. But, whatsoever his mood, he never failed to make as many
sarcastic and embarrassing speeches as possible, and to cause the
Reverend Mr. Mordaunt to wish it were proper and Christian-like to throw
something heavy at him. During all the years in which Mr. Mordaunt
had been in charge of Dorincourt parish, the rector certainly did not
remember having seen his lordship, of his own free will, do any one a
kindness, or, under any circumstances whatever, show that he thought of
any one but himself.

He had called to-day to speak to him of a specially pressing case, and
as he had walked up the avenue, he had, for two reasons, dreaded his
visit more than usual. In the first place, he knew that his lordship
had for several days been suffering with the gout, and had been in
so villainous a humor that rumors of it had even reached the
village--carried there by one of the young women servants, to her
sister, who kept a little shop and retailed darning-needles and cotton
and peppermints and gossip, as a means of earning an honest living.
What Mrs. Dibble did not know about the Castle and its inmates, and the
farm-houses and their inmates, and the village and its population, was
really not worth being talked about. And of course she knew everything
about the Castle, because her sister, Jane Shorts, was one of the upper
housemaids, and was very friendly and intimate with Thomas.

"And the way his lordship do go on!" said Mrs. Dibble, over the counter,
"and the way he do use language, Mr. Thomas told Jane herself, no flesh
and blood as is in livery could stand--for throw a plate of toast at Mr.
Thomas, hisself, he did, not more than two days since, and if it weren't
for other things being agreeable and the society below stairs most
genteel, warning would have been gave within a' hour!"

And the rector had heard all this, for somehow the Earl was a favorite
black sheep in the cottages and farm-houses, and his bad behavior gave
many a good woman something to talk about when she had company to tea.

And the second reason was even worse, because it was a new one and had
been talked about with the most excited interest.

Who did not know of the old nobleman's fury when his handsome son the
Captain had married the American lady? Who did not know how cruelly he
had treated the Captain, and how the big, gay, sweet-smiling young man,
who was the only member of the grand family any one liked, had died in
a foreign land, poor and unforgiven? Who did not know how fiercely his
lordship had hated the poor young creature who had been this son's wife,
and how he had hated the thought of her child and never meant to see the
boy--until his two sons died and left him without an heir? And then,
who did not know that he had looked forward without any affection or
pleasure to his grandson's coming, and that he had made up his mind that
he should find the boy a vulgar, awkward, pert American lad, more likely
to disgrace his noble name than to honor it?

The proud, angry old man thought he had kept all his thoughts secret. He
did not suppose any one had dared to guess at, much less talk over what
he felt, and dreaded; but his servants watched him, and read his
face and his ill-humors and fits of gloom, and discussed them in the
servants' hall. And while he thought himself quite secure from the
common herd, Thomas was telling Jane and the cook, and the butler, and
the housemaids and the other footmen that it was his opinion that "the
hold man was wuss than usual a-thinkin' hover the Capting's boy, an'
hanticipatin' as he won't be no credit to the fambly. An' serve him
right," added Thomas; "hit's 'is hown fault. Wot can he iggspect from a
child brought up in pore circumstances in that there low Hamerica?"

And as the Reverend Mr. Mordaunt walked under the great trees, he
remembered that this questionable little boy had arrived at the Castle
only the evening before, and that there were nine chances to one that
his lordship's worst fears were realized, and twenty-two chances to one
that if the poor little fellow had disappointed him, the Earl was even
now in a tearing rage, and ready to vent all his rancor on the first
person who called--which it appeared probable would be his reverend
self.

Judge then of his amazement when, as Thomas opened the library door, his
ears were greeted by a delighted ring of childish laughter.

"That's two out!" shouted an excited, clear little voice. "You see it's
two out!"

And there was the Earl's chair, and the gout-stool, and his foot on
it; and by him a small table and a game on it; and quite close to him,
actually leaning against his arm and his ungouty knee, was a little boy
with face glowing, and eyes dancing with excitement. "It's two out!" the
little stranger cried. "You hadn't any luck that time, had you?"--And
then they both recognized at once that some one had come in.

The Earl glanced around, knitting his shaggy eyebrows as he had a
trick of doing, and when he saw who it was, Mr. Mordaunt was still
more surprised to see that he looked even less disagreeable than usual
instead of more so. In fact, he looked almost as if he had forgotten for
the moment how disagreeable he was, and how unpleasant he really could
make himself when he tried.

"Ah!" he said, in his harsh voice, but giving his hand rather
graciously. "Good-morning, Mordaunt. I've found a new employment, you
see."

He put his other hand on Cedric's shoulder,--perhaps deep down in his
heart there was a stir of gratified pride that it was such an heir he
had to present; there was a spark of something like pleasure in his eyes
as he moved the boy slightly forward.

"This is the new Lord Fauntleroy," he said. "Fauntleroy, this is Mr.
Mordaunt, the rector of the parish."

Fauntleroy looked up at the gentleman in the clerical garments, and gave
him his hand.

"I am very glad to make your acquaintance, sir," he said, remembering
the words he had heard Mr. Hobbs use on one or two occasions when he had
been greeting a new customer with ceremony.

Cedric felt quite sure that one ought to be more than usually polite to
a minister.

Mr. Mordaunt held the small hand in his a moment as he looked down at
the child's face, smiling involuntarily. He liked the little fellow from
that instant--as in fact people always did like him. And it was not the
boy's beauty and grace which most appealed to him; it was the simple,
natural kindliness in the little lad which made any words he uttered,
however quaint and unexpected, sound pleasant and sincere. As the rector
looked at Cedric, he forgot to think of the Earl at all. Nothing in the
world is so strong as a kind heart, and somehow this kind little
heart, though it was only the heart of a child, seemed to clear all the
atmosphere of the big gloomy room and make it brighter.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lord Fauntleroy," said the
rector. "You made a long journey to come to us. A great many people will
be glad to know you made it safely."

"It WAS a long way," answered Fauntleroy, "but Dearest, my mother, was
with me and I wasn't lonely. Of course you are never lonely if your
mother is with you; and the ship was beautiful."

"Take a chair, Mordaunt," said the Earl. Mr. Mordaunt sat down. He
glanced from Fauntleroy to the Earl.

"Your lordship is greatly to be congratulated," he said warmly.

But the Earl plainly had no intention of showing his feelings on the
subject.

"He is like his father," he said rather gruffly. "Let us hope he'll
conduct himself more creditably." And then he added: "Well, what is it
this morning, Mordaunt? Who is in trouble now?"

This was not as bad as Mr. Mordaunt had expected, but he hesitated a
second before he began.

"It is Higgins," he said; "Higgins of Edge Farm. He has been very
unfortunate. He was ill himself last autumn, and his children had
scarlet fever. I can't say that he is a very good manager, but he has
had ill-luck, and of course he is behindhand in many ways. He is in
trouble about his rent now. Newick tells him if he doesn't pay it, he
must leave the place; and of course that would be a very serious matter.
His wife is ill, and he came to me yesterday to beg me to see about
it, and ask you for time. He thinks if you would give him time he could
catch up again."

"They all think that," said the Earl, looking rather black.

Fauntleroy made a movement forward. He had been standing between his
grandfather and the visitor, listening with all his might. He had begun
to be interested in Higgins at once. He wondered how many children there
were, and if the scarlet fever had hurt them very much. His eyes were
wide open and were fixed upon Mr. Mordaunt with intent interest as that
gentleman went on with the conversation.

"Higgins is a well-meaning man," said the rector, making an effort to
strengthen his plea.

"He is a bad enough tenant," replied his lordship. "And he is always
behindhand, Newick tells me."

"He is in great trouble now," said the rector.

"He is very fond of his wife and children, and if the farm is taken
from him they may literally starve. He can not give them the nourishing
things they need. Two of the children were left very low after the
fever, and the doctor orders for them wine and luxuries that Higgins can
not afford."

At this Fauntleroy moved a step nearer.

"That was the way with Michael," he said.

The Earl slightly started.

"I forgot YOU!" he said. "I forgot we had a philanthropist in the room.
Who was Michael?" And the gleam of queer amusement came back into the
old man's deep-set eyes.

"He was Bridget's husband, who had the fever," answered Fauntleroy; "and
he couldn't pay the rent or buy wine and things. And you gave me that
money to help him."

The Earl drew his brows together into a curious frown, which somehow was
scarcely grim at all. He glanced across at Mr. Mordaunt.

"I don't know what sort of landed proprietor he will make," he said.
"I told Havisham the boy was to have what he wanted--anything he
wanted--and what he wanted, it seems, was money to give to beggars."

"Oh! but they weren't beggars," said Fauntleroy eagerly. "Michael was a
splendid bricklayer! They all worked."

"Oh!" said the Earl, "they were not beggars. They were splendid
bricklayers, and bootblacks, and apple-women."

He bent his gaze on the boy for a few seconds in silence. The fact was
that a new thought was coming to him, and though, perhaps, it was not
prompted by the noblest emotions, it was not a bad thought. "Come here,"
he said, at last.

Fauntleroy went and stood as near to him as possible without encroaching
on the gouty foot.

"What would YOU do in this case?" his lordship asked.

It must be confessed that Mr. Mordaunt experienced for the moment a
curious sensation. Being a man of great thoughtfulness, and having spent
so many years on the estate of Dorincourt, knowing the tenantry, rich
and poor, the people of the village, honest and industrious, dishonest
and lazy, he realized very strongly what power for good or evil would be
given in the future to this one small boy standing there, his brown eyes
wide open, his hands deep in his pockets; and the thought came to him
also that a great deal of power might, perhaps, through the caprice of
a proud, self-indulgent old man, be given to him now, and that if his
young nature were not a simple and generous one, it might be the worst
thing that could happen, not only for others, but for himself.

"And what would YOU do in such a case?" demanded the Earl.

Fauntleroy drew a little nearer, and laid one hand on his knee, with the
most confiding air of good comradeship.

"If I were very rich," he said, "and not only just a little boy, I
should let him stay, and give him the things for his children; but
then, I am only a boy." Then, after a second's pause, in which his face
brightened visibly, "YOU can do anything, can't you?" he said.

"Humph!" said my lord, staring at him. "That's your opinion, is it?" And
he was not displeased either.

"I mean you can give any one anything," said Fauntleroy. "Who's Newick?"

"He is my agent," answered the earl, "and some of my tenants are not
over-fond of him."

"Are you going to write him a letter now?" inquired Fauntleroy. "Shall I
bring you the pen and ink? I can take the game off this table."

It plainly had not for an instant occurred to him that Newick would be
allowed to do his worst.

The Earl paused a moment, still looking at him. "Can you write?" he
asked.

"Yes," answered Cedric, "but not very well."

"Move the things from the table," commanded my lord, "and bring the pen
and ink, and a sheet of paper from my desk."

Mr. Mordaunt's interest began to increase. Fauntleroy did as he was told
very deftly. In a few moments, the sheet of paper, the big inkstand, and
the pen were ready.

"There!" he said gayly, "now you can write it."

"You are to write it," said the Earl.

"I!" exclaimed Fauntleroy, and a flush overspread his forehead. "Will
it do if I write it? I don't always spell quite right when I haven't a
dictionary, and nobody tells me."

"It will do," answered the Earl. "Higgins will not complain of the
spelling. I'm not the philanthropist; you are. Dip your pen in the ink."

Fauntleroy took up the pen and dipped it in the ink-bottle, then he
arranged himself in position, leaning on the table.

"Now," he inquired, "what must I say?"

"You may say, 'Higgins is not to be interfered with, for the present,'
and sign it, 'Fauntleroy,'" said the Earl.

Fauntleroy dipped his pen in the ink again, and resting his arm, began
to write. It was rather a slow and serious process, but he gave his
whole soul to it. After a while, however, the manuscript was complete,
and he handed it to his grandfather with a smile slightly tinged with
anxiety.

"Do you think it will do?" he asked.

The Earl looked at it, and the corners of his mouth twitched a little.

"Yes," he answered; "Higgins will find it entirely satisfactory." And he
handed it to Mr. Mordaunt.

What Mr. Mordaunt found written was this:


"Dear mr. Newik if you pleas mr. higins is not to be intur feared with
for the present and oblige. Yours rispecferly,

"FAUNTLEROY."


"Mr. Hobbs always signed his letters that way," said Fauntleroy; "and I
thought I'd better say 'please.' Is that exactly the right way to spell
'interfered'?"

"It's not exactly the way it is spelled in the dictionary," answered the
Earl.

"I was afraid of that," said Fauntleroy. "I ought to have asked. You
see, that's the way with words of more than one syllable; you have to
look in the dictionary. It's always safest. I'll write it over again."

And write it over again he did, making quite an imposing copy, and
taking precautions in the matter of spelling by consulting the Earl
himself.

"Spelling is a curious thing," he said. "It's so often different
from what you expect it to be. I used to think 'please' was spelled
p-l-e-e-s, but it isn't, you know; and you'd think 'dear' was spelled
d-e-r-e, if you didn't inquire. Sometimes it almost discourages you."

When Mr. Mordaunt went away, he took the letter with him, and he took
something else with him also--namely, a pleasanter feeling and a more
hopeful one than he had ever carried home with him down that avenue on
any previous visit he had made at Dorincourt Castle.

When he was gone, Fauntleroy, who had accompanied him to the door, went
back to his grandfather.

"May I go to Dearest now?" he asked. "I think she will be waiting for
me."

The Earl was silent a moment.

"There is something in the stable for you to see first," he said. "Ring
the bell."

"If you please," said Fauntleroy, with his quick little flush. "I'm very
much obliged; but I think I'd better see it to-morrow. She will be
expecting me all the time."

"Very well," answered the Earl. "We will order the carriage." Then he
added dryly, "It's a pony."

Fauntleroy drew a long breath.

"A pony!" he exclaimed. "Whose pony is it?"

"Yours," replied the Earl.

"Mine?" cried the little fellow. "Mine--like the things upstairs?"

"Yes," said his grandfather. "Would you like to see it? Shall I order it
to be brought around?"

Fauntleroy's cheeks grew redder and redder.

"I never thought I should have a pony!" he said. "I never thought that!
How glad Dearest will be. You give me EVERYthing, don't you?"

"Do you wish to see it?" inquired the Earl.

Fauntleroy drew a long breath. "I WANT to see it," he said. "I want to
see it so much I can hardly wait. But I'm afraid there isn't time."

"You MUST go and see your mother this afternoon?" asked the Earl. "You
think you can't put it off?"

"Why," said Fauntleroy, "she has been thinking about me all the morning,
and I have been thinking about her!"

"Oh!" said the Earl. "You have, have you? Ring the bell."

As they drove down the avenue, under the arching trees, he was rather
silent. But Fauntleroy was not. He talked about the pony. What color was
it? How big was it? What was its name? What did it like to eat best? How
old was it? How early in the morning might he get up and see it?

"Dearest will be so glad!" he kept saying. "She will be so much obliged
to you for being so kind to me! She knows I always liked ponies so much,
but we never thought I should have one. There was a little boy on Fifth
Avenue who had one, and he used to ride out every morning and we used to
take a walk past his house to see him."

He leaned back against the cushions and regarded the Earl with rapt
interest for a few minutes and in entire silence.

"I think you must be the best person in the world," he burst forth at
last. "You are always doing good, aren't you?--and thinking about other
people. Dearest says that is the best kind of goodness; not to think
about yourself, but to think about other people. That is just the way
you are, isn't it?"

His lordship was so dumfounded to find himself presented in such
agreeable colors, that he did not know exactly what to say. He felt that
he needed time for reflection. To see each of his ugly, selfish motives
changed into a good and generous one by the simplicity of a child was a
singular experience.

Fauntleroy went on, still regarding him with admiring eyes--those great,
clear, innocent eyes!

"You make so many people happy," he said. "There's Michael and Bridget
and their ten children, and the apple-woman, and Dick, and Mr.
Hobbs, and Mr. Higgins and Mrs. Higgins and their children, and Mr.
Mordaunt,--because of course he was glad,--and Dearest and me, about
the pony and all the other things. Do you know, I've counted it up on
my fingers and in my mind, and it's twenty-seven people you've been kind
to. That's a good many--twenty-seven!"

"And I was the person who was kind to them--was I?" said the Earl.

"Why, yes, you know," answered Fauntleroy. "You made them all happy.
Do you know," with some delicate hesitation, "that people are sometimes
mistaken about earls when they don't know them. Mr. Hobbs was. I am
going to write him, and tell him about it."

"What was Mr. Hobbs's opinion of earls?" asked his lordship.

"Well, you see, the difficulty was," replied his young companion,
"that he didn't know any, and he'd only read about them in books. He
thought--you mustn't mind it--that they were gory tyrants; and he said
he wouldn't have them hanging around his store. But if he'd known YOU,
I'm sure he would have felt quite different. I shall tell him about
you."

"What shall you tell him?"

"I shall tell him," said Fauntleroy, glowing with enthusiasm, "that
you are the kindest man I ever heard of. And you are always thinking of
other people, and making them happy and--and I hope when I grow up, I
shall be just like you."

"Just like me!" repeated his lordship, looking at the little kindling
face. And a dull red crept up under his withered skin, and he suddenly
turned his eyes away and looked out of the carriage window at the great
beech-trees, with the sun shining on their glossy, red-brown leaves.

"JUST like you," said Fauntleroy, adding modestly, "if I can. Perhaps
I'm not good enough, but I'm going to try."

The carriage rolled on down the stately avenue under the beautiful,
broad-branched trees, through the spaces of green shade and lanes of
golden sunlight. Fauntleroy saw again the lovely places where the ferns
grew high and the bluebells swayed in the breeze; he saw the deer,
standing or lying in the deep grass, turn their large, startled eyes as
the carriage passed, and caught glimpses of the brown rabbits as they
scurried away. He heard the whir of the partridges and the calls and
songs of the birds, and it all seemed even more beautiful to him than
before. All his heart was filled with pleasure and happiness in the
beauty that was on every side. But the old Earl saw and heard very
different things, though he was apparently looking out too. He saw
a long life, in which there had been neither generous deeds nor kind
thoughts; he saw years in which a man who had been young and strong and
rich and powerful had used his youth and strength and wealth and power
only to please himself and kill time as the days and years succeeded
each other; he saw this man, when the time had been killed and old age
had come, solitary and without real friends in the midst of all his
splendid wealth; he saw people who disliked or feared him, and people
who would flatter and cringe to him, but no one who really cared whether
he lived or died, unless they had something to gain or lose by it. He
looked out on the broad acres which belonged to him, and he knew what
Fauntleroy did not--how far they extended, what wealth they represented,
and how many people had homes on their soil. And he knew, too,--another
thing Fauntleroy did not,--that in all those homes, humble or
well-to-do, there was probably not one person, however much he envied
the wealth and stately name and power, and however willing he would have
been to possess them, who would for an instant have thought of calling
the noble owner "good," or wishing, as this simple-souled little boy
had, to be like him.

And it was not exactly pleasant to reflect upon, even for a cynical,
worldly old man, who had been sufficient unto himself for seventy years
and who had never deigned to care what opinion the world held of him so
long as it did not interfere with his comfort or entertainment. And the
fact was, indeed, that he had never before condescended to reflect
upon it at all; and he only did so now because a child had believed
him better than he was, and by wishing to follow in his illustrious
footsteps and imitate his example, had suggested to him the curious
question whether he was exactly the person to take as a model.

Fauntleroy thought the Earl's foot must be hurting him, his brows
knitted themselves together so, as he looked out at the park; and
thinking this, the considerate little fellow tried not to disturb him,
and enjoyed the trees and the ferns and the deer in silence.

But at last the carriage, having passed the gates and bowled through the
green lanes for a short distance, stopped. They had reached Court Lodge;
and Fauntleroy was out upon the ground almost before the big footman had
time to open the carriage door.

The Earl wakened from his reverie with a start.

"What!" he said. "Are we here?"

"Yes," said Fauntleroy. "Let me give you your stick. Just lean on me
when you get out."

"I am not going to get out," replied his lordship brusquely.

"Not--not to see Dearest?" exclaimed Fauntleroy with astonished face.

"'Dearest' will excuse me," said the Earl dryly. "Go to her and tell her
that not even a new pony would keep you away."

"She will be disappointed," said Fauntleroy. "She will want to see you
very much."

"I am afraid not," was the answer. "The carriage will call for you as we
come back.--Tell Jeffries to drive on, Thomas."

Thomas closed the carriage door; and, after a puzzled look, Fauntleroy
ran up the drive. The Earl had the opportunity--as Mr. Havisham once
had--of seeing a pair of handsome, strong little legs flash over the
ground with astonishing rapidity. Evidently their owner had no intention
of losing any time. The carriage rolled slowly away, but his lordship
did not at once lean back; he still looked out. Through a space in the
trees he could see the house door; it was wide open. The little figure
dashed up the steps; another figure--a little figure, too, slender and
young, in its black gown--ran to meet it. It seemed as if they flew
together, as Fauntleroy leaped into his mother's arms, hanging about her
neck and covering her sweet young face with kisses.

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